Stone of Tears (53 page)

“I know.”

“They be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“I know that too.”

“Then what do you plan to do about it?”

“I plan to do what the prophecies say is the only thing that gives us a chance at closing the veil.”

“And what be that, old man?”

“Helping Richard. We must find a way to help him, for the prophecies say he is the only one who can close the veil.”

Neither looked back as fire roared to life, roiling and racing through the ruins, dancing through the bones.

Queen Cyrilla held her head high. She refused to acknowledge how much the coarse fingers of the brutes to each side were hurting her arms. She didn’t resist as they walked her down the filthy corridor. Resistance was hopeless, anyway. Resistance would bring her no aid. She would conduct herself now as always: with dignity. She was the Queen of Galea. She would endure what was to come with honor. She would not show her terror.

Besides, it was not what was being done to her that mattered. It was what was going to happen to the Galean people that grieved her.

And what had already happened.

Nearly one hundred score of the Galean guard had been murdered before her eyes. Who could have foreseen that they would be set upon in this, of all places: on neutral ground. That a few had escaped was no solace. They, too, would probably be hunted down and killed.

She hoped that her brother, Prince Harold, had been among those who had escaped. If he had gotten away, perhaps he could rally a defense against the worse slaughter that was yet to come.

The brutal hands on her arms brought her to a halt next to a hissing torch set in a rust incrusted bracket. The fingers twisted so painfully that a small cry escaped her lips despite her will to stifle it.

“Are my men hurting you, My Lady?” came a mocking voice from behind.

She coolly denied Prince Fyren the satisfaction of an answer.

A guard worked keys at a rusty lock, sending a sharp, metallic sound echoing down the stone corridor when the bolt finally drew. The heavy door groaned on its hinges as it was pulled open. The viselike hands forced her on, through the doorway and down another long, low passageway.

She could hear the swish of her satin skirts, and to the sides and behind, the men’s boots on the stone floor, splashing occasionally through stagnant, foul smelling water. The dank air felt cold on her shoulders, which were unaccustomed to being uncovered.

Her heart threatened to race out of control when she thought about where she was being taken. She prayed to the dear spirits that there wouldn’t be rats. She feared rats, their sharp teeth, their clutching claws, and their cunning, black eyes. When she was very little she had nightmares about rats, and would wake screaming.

It an effort to bring her heart back under control, she tried to think of other things. She thought about the strange woman who had sought a private audience with her. Cyrilla wasn’t at all sure why she had granted it, but she now wished she had paid more heed to the insistent woman.

What was her name? Lady something. A glimpse of her hair beneath the concealing veil had shown it to be too short for someone of her standing. Lady … Bevinvier. Yes, that was it: Lady Bevinvier. Lady Bevinvier of … someplace. She couldn’t will her mind to remember. It didn’t matter anyway; it was not where the woman was from, but what she had said, that mattered.

Leave Aydindril,
Lady Bevinvier had warned.
Leave at once.

But Cyrilla had not come all this way, in the teeth of winter, to leave before the Council of the Midlands had heard her grievance, and acted upon it. She had come to demand that the Council do their duty to bring an immediate halt to the transgressions against her land and people.

Towns had been sacked, farms burned, and people murdered. The armies of Kelton were massing to attack. An invasion was imminent, if not already underway. And for what? Nothing but naked conquest. Against an ally! It was an outrage!

It was the Council’s duty to come to the defense of any land being attacked, no matter by whom. The whole point of the Council of the Midlands was to prevent just such treason. It was their duty to direct all the lands to come to the aid of Galea, and put down the aggression.

Though Galea was a powerful land, it had been gravely weakened by its defense of the Midlands against D’Hara, and was not prepared for another costly war. Kelton had been spared the brunt of the D’Haran conquest, and had reserves aplenty. Galea had paid the price of resistance in their stead.

The night before, Lady Bevinvier had come to her, and had begged that she leave at once. She had said Cyrilla would find no help for Galea from the Council. The Lady Bevinvier said that if the Queen stayed, she would be in great personal danger. At first, when pressed, Lady Bevinvier refused to explain herself.

Cyrilla thanked her but said she would not turn away from her duty to her people, and would go before the Council, as planned. Lady Bevinvier broke down in tears, begging that the Queen heed her words.

She at last confided that she had had a vision.

Cyrilla tried to draw the nature of the vision out of the woman, but she said that it was incomplete, that she didn’t know any details, only that if the Queen didn’t leave at once, something terrible would happen. Though Cyrilla trusted well the powers of magic, she had little faith in fortunetellers. Most were charlatans, seeking only to fatten their purse with a clever turn of a phrase, or a vague hint of danger to be avoided.

Queen Cyrilla was touched by the woman’s seeming sincerity, though she reasoned it might be nothing but deception, meant to trick her out of a coin. A ruse for money seemed strange coming from a woman of such seeming wealth, but times had been hard, and she knew the wealthy were not immune to losses. After all, if gold and goods were to be seized, it only made sense to seek them from those who had them. Cyrilla knew many who had worked hard all their lives, only to lose everything in the war with D’Hara. Perhaps lady Bevinvier’s short hair was the result of that loss.

She thanked the woman, but told her that the mission was too important to be turned aside. She pressed a gold piece into the woman’s hand, only to have Lady Bevinvier throw the coin across the room before rushing off in tears.

Cyrilla had been shaken by that. A charlatan did not refuse gold. Unless of course they sought something more. Either the woman had been telling the truth, or she was working in aid of Kelton, trying to prevent the Council from hearing of the aggression.

Either way, it didn’t matter; Cyrilla was resolute. Besides, she was influential among the Council. Galea was respected for its defense of the Midlands. When Aydindril had fallen, Councilors who had refused to swear the allegiance of their land to D’Hara had been put to death and replaced by puppets. Those councilors who had collaborated were allowed to retain their position. Galea’s loyal ambassador to the Council had been executed.

How the war had ended was a puzzle; D’Haran forces were told that Darken Rahl was dead and all hostilities were ended. A new Lord Rahl had succeeded, and the troops were simply called home, or ordered to help those they had conquered. Cyrilla suspected Darken Rahl had been assassinated.

Whatever had happened was good by her; the council was now back in the hands of the people of the Midlands. The ones who collaborated, and the puppets, had been arrested. Things were said to be set back to the way they had been before the dictator. She expected the Council would come to the aid of Galea.

Queen Cyrilla, too, had an ally on the Council, the most powerful ally their was: the Mother Confessor. Although Kahlan was her half sister, that held no sway. Galea, and the Queen, supported the independence of the different lands, and the peace of the Midlands through the Council. Galea had always advocated unity of purpose. The Mother Confessor respected that steadfastness, and that was what made her Galea’s ally.

Kahlan had never shown Cyrilla any favoritism, and that was as it should have been; favoritism would have weakened the Mother Confessor, threatening the alliance of the Council, and therefore, peace. She respected Kahlan for putting the unity of the Midlands above any power games. Such games were a shifting bog anyway; one was always better off in the end when dealt with fairly, rather that by favor.

Cyrilla had always been secretly proud of her half sister. Kahlan was twelve years younger, smart, strong, and despite her young age, an astute leader. Though they were related by blood, they almost never spoke of it. Kahlan was a Confessor, and of the magic. She was not a sister who shared the blood of a father, but a Confessor, and the Mother Confessor of the Midlands. Confessors were blood to no one but Confessors.

Still, having no family of her own, save her beloved brother, Harold, she had often longed to take Kahlan in her arms as kin, as a little sister, and speak of the things they shared. But that was not possible. Cyrilla was the Queen of Galea, and Kahlan was the Mother Confessor; two women who were virtual strangers who shared nothing save blood and mutual respect. Duty came before the heart. Galea was Cyrilla’s family; the Confessors, Kahlan’s.

Though there were those who resented Kahlan’s mother taking Wyborn as a mate, Cyrilla was not among them. Her mother, Queen Bernadine, had taught her and Harold of the need for Confessors, their need for strong blood in that line of magic, and how it served the greater cause of the Midlands in keeping peace. Her mother had never spoken bitterly of losing her husband to the Confessors, but explained instead the honor Cyrilla and Harold had of sharing blood with the Confessors, even if it was mostly unspoken. Yes, she was proud of Kahlan.

Proud, but also perhaps a bit wary. The ways of Confessors were a mystery to her. From birth they were trained in Aydindril, trained by other Confessors, and by wizards. Their magic, their power, was something they were born with and in a way they were slaves to it. In some ways it was the same with her; born to be Queen, without much choice. Though she had no magic, she understood the weight of birthright.

From birth until their training was completed, Confessors were kept cloistered, like priestesses, in a world apart. Their discipline was said to be rigorous. Though Cyrilla knew they must have emotions like anyone, Confessors were trained to subjugate them. Duty to their power was all. It left them no choice in life, save choosing a mate, and even that was not for love but for duty.

Cyrilla had always wished she could bring a little of the love of a sister to Kahlan. Perhaps, she also wished Kahlan could have brought a little of that love to her, too. But it could never be. Maybe Kahlan had loved her from afar, as Cyrilla had Kahlan. Perhaps Kahlan had been proud of her, too, in her own way. She had always hoped it was so.

The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people’s love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.

Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.

It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla’s mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been Queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.

That Kahlan had became the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power, and her character. And maybe to a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.

To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful among Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.

That day the streets of Ebinissia, the crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stable boy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or the games, or around the musicians, acrobats and jugglers.

Cyrilla, as Queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many smiling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.

That night there was a royal ball at the Palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were spread on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety; only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.

The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisers beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.